“I’m not sure,” I said slowly. “Apparently, the Storm is sending one of their players to ‘help out’ with the gala.”
Naomi’s eyebrows rose. “Like… one of the actual players? As in… your boyfriend?"
“That’s what he said. I feel like if it was Kyle, he would have said something."
"Who? Kyle or Cam?"
I decided not to say anything in response. I opened my email, and sure enough, the press release was sitting at the top of my inbox, bold and impossible to miss: SWM Storm’s Beckett Mason joins the Ellery James Foundation for community outreach.
“Oh,” I breathed, clicking it open.
Naomi leaned over my shoulder, reading along. “Oh,” she echoed, tone shifting from curious to horrified.
That Beckett Mason. The league’s most fined forward. The guy whose name was practically a synonym for “disciplinary hearing.”
I’d seen the headlines. The temper. The press conferences. The red cards. The scowl that could make a ref second-guess his whistle.
I groaned, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Of all the players in Michigan, they’re sending him?”
Naomi grinned, unhelpfully. “At least he’s good-looking?”
I shot her a look. “So’s a wildfire.”
She laughed. “Come on, maybe he’s just misunderstood.”
“Or maybe he’s a PR nightmare they’re trying to hand off to me like a live grenade.” I sighed, closing the laptop and grabbing my coffee. “Do we have an extra liability form somewhere? Because I feel like we’re going to need one.”
Naomi smirked. “Want me to clear a spot in your schedule for his arrival?”
“Yeah,” I muttered, mostly to myself. “Right between pray he doesn’t scare the sponsors and make sure the fire extinguisher works.”
I tried to shake it off, but the email glared at me from my screen, that headline shining like a bad omen.
Beckett Mason.
The league’s most fined forward. The Storm’s infamous hothead.
And apparently—my newest volunteer.
Perfect.
The morning sunlight slanted through the conference room windows, warming the table scattered with folders, sponsorship packets, and too many half-empty coffee cups. The office hummed with its usual pre-gala rhythm—phones ringing, printers whirring, the faint sound of laughter drifting from the kids’ after-school room next door. It was chaos, but it was our chaos.
I straightened the stack of name tags for the sponsor luncheon, then checked the agenda one more time. Every meeting, every email, every donation follow-up—it was all meticulously lined up. If everything stayed on track, the gala would go off without a hitch.
Which meant I couldn’t afford any surprises. Especially not this one.
Cam’s chipper voice still echoed in my head from our earlier call: “He’ll report this afternoon.”
I’d hung up smiling through gritted teeth.
Now, as I rearranged the chairs around the conference table, the memory of that email headline flashed like a warning siren.
That Beckett Mason.
The league’s walking temper tantrum. The one who’d racked up more fines than some players made in bonuses.
I exhaled slowly, forcing my shoulders to drop. It’s fine, I told myself. I can handle one ego for a week.
